


Then Why Didn’t You?

by Arashikitt03



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Cinematic Parallels, Dragons view Vikings the same way Vikings view dragons, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Hiccup and Toothless are both outcasts in their respective societies, Hiccup is curious, Toothless’s POV, i’ll add more tags if/when i update, so they become friends with each other, toothless is confused and curious
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29828007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arashikitt03/pseuds/Arashikitt03
Summary: The Viking hatchling was watching him. It had been for about seven minutes now, perched on one of the ledges on the side of the ravine, scribbling on a small, brown slab of some sort. It was the same hatchling that had almost killed him two days ago. The one that had then chose to spare his life.Vikings always go for the kill.So, the Nightfury wondered, why hadn’t this one?
Relationships: Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III & Toothless
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38





	Then Why Didn’t You?

**Author's Note:**

> Yo, I’m back. It’s been... four months, since I last posted. Sorry about that.
> 
> Anywho, I’m starting to get back into my writing grove. I’m still working on chapter four of MGFS, and hopefully I’ll get that out by the end of the month. 
> 
> As for this fic, I have no idea if I’ll write more for it or leave it as a one shot. I very much like the idea of seeing HTTYD 1 from Toothless’s perspective, and I’m always down for cinematic parallels, so maybe I’ll take this a bit further. 
> 
> I wrote this in thirty minutes.

The Nightfury lifted his head from the lake’s surface, a grumble rising in his throat as he glared down at the murky waters. So far, any attempt to fly or catch any food had ended up fruitless, same as the day before, when he’d crashed into this stupid ravine. At least on the first day, no one had been around to watch him make a fool of himself.

The Viking hatchling had shown up about ten minutes ago, clutching a small brown slab and a stick with a small, rounded black tip. It had perched itself towards the edge of a small outcrop, closer to the top of the cliff, and had simply been watching him ever since. Every now and then, the small creature would use the dull stick to scribble something onto the little slab, before returning to watch him. 

The hatchling, the dragon had noted, was small. Unusually so, considering that the thing was most likely a Viking. It certainly _smelled_ like one.

Still, nothing about the thing’s appearance said “Viking”: the thing was tiny, scrawny, the false fur it wore looking baggy on it’s frame. It made the hatchling look even smaller, even weaker, as if a strong breeze could knock it over. It lacked the face-fur that most large Vikings had, lacked the metal head and horns, lacked that insane glint in it’s eye that all Vikings had. 

Instead, there was a sort of curiosity, a sort of wonder and interest that lacked any malevolence. Like it wanted to _understand_ him.

It was completely different from the fear, the anger and hate, that had been present two days ago.

The downed dragon gave a silent huff as he thought back to that day. In all honesty, he hadn’t expected to walk away unscathed. Or alive, really. 

He’d been trapped, tangled up in one of those infernal nets, trapped on the ground in the middle of the forest. His tail ached, sharp and burning, and the ropes dug into his scales. He’d heard footsteps, then, heard a sharp gasp, then muffled footsteps and shaky breaths, and then he saw it. The hatchling. 

The Viking hatchling, wielding a small, silver claw, and shaking in terror. 

The Nightfury remembered his frustration, his embarrassment. Out of _all_ the ways he could’ve died, and it was going to be a pathetic excuse for a Viking wielding only a tiny claw that killed him. 

He remembered the hatchling yelling, a pitiful roar that it was a _Viking,_ that it would kill him, except there had been a hint of uncertainty in the thing’s voice. It had raised the claw high above it’s head, eyes squeezed shut as the blade glinted in the weak sunlight. Embarrassment and frustration had become fear, terror and helplessness. He watched the Viking, watched it hesitate before lifting the claw ever-so-slightly higher. 

Then fear became acceptance, became the certainty that his blood would stain the grass, that his next breath would be his last. The Nightfury had closed his eyes, and waited for the small claw to pierce his heart.

It never did.

Instead, the dragon heard a small sigh, one that carried a sort of helpless frustration, and then one, two footsteps away. He heard the creature mutter something to itself, nothing more than a whisper.

Then he heard the sounds of ropes snapping, felt the net loosen around him, and then he was upright, pinning the little Viking to the ground. The smell of panic, of terror filled the air, no longer his own but that of the pathetic creature below him. Terrified green eyes stared up into his own, and the Viking whimpered in fear. 

The Nightfury had _hated_ the creature then. He’d felt that anger, that fury for which he was named, boiling in his blood like liquid fire, and he’d let that heat build in his throat to blast the little Viking into oblivion

And then he saw the creature’s eyes close, registered the slight vibrations the thing made beneath his claws, and he remembered those green eyes so different from his own and yet somehow the _exact same_ staring up at him in a perfect mirror of their positions not one minute earlier. 

For a second, the dragon saw _himself_ in the human’s place. 

And suddenly, he couldn’t do it.

_He couldn’t kill the Viking_

So he’d quenched the fire in his chest, doused the hatred in his blood, and settled for a warning roar. The dragon had flown off, or at least he’d attempted to, leaving the hatchling creature behind. Leaving it alive, like it had done for him.

The dragon had spent the next few hours trying and failing to escape the ravine, first by flying, then by climbing. It was only after he’d exhausted himself that he’d begun to speculate on his encounter with the hatchling, berating himself for his weakness in not blasting the thing. 

He was the first dragon who wouldn’t kill a Viking. ~~(How could he, when all he’d been able to see was himself?)~~

Two days later, and the creature was back, only this time, there was no fear. No hatred or bloodlust. Just simple, innocent curiosity. 

The Nightfury couldn’t help but be curious as well. This hatchling, this Viking hatchling... it defied all his knowledge on what a viking was _supposed_ to be. The thing was a viking, it had said as much itself, and yet it had not only offered him mercy, but had _freed him._

Vikings, the Nightfury had been told over and over again, _always_ went for the kill.

But this one....

_This one hadn’t._

Suddenly there was a sound like falling pebbles, and the dragon whipped his head toward the source.

The hatchling, eyes wide and slightly panicked, reached out over the edge of the outcropping he’d been perched on. The dull scribble-stick was conspicuously missing.

The dragon held in a huff of amusement. The viking had dropped the scribble-stick, hadn’t it?

Suddenly, the little viking’s eyes snapped to his own. It’d noticed him watching.

A tinge of fear and apprehension entered it’s dark emerald eyes, and it slowly pulled it’s hand back over the edge of the outcrop. It looked distinctly embarrassed, like a hatchling who’s mother caught them stealing the last fish. 

Still, that curiosity was there.

For a moment, neither moved. The forest was silent, save for the distant rustle of leaves in the wind. The dragon waited for the little viking to move, to run away screaming in fear or pull out that small metal claw and charge him. 

Instead, the hatchling slowly stood up, cradling the small brown slab to his chest, and waved a small paw in his direction. Then it cringed slightly, the embarrassed look entering it’s eyes again, and quickly scurried off, leaving the scribble-stick behind.

It was, by far, the _strangest_ thing the Nightfury had ever seen. This creature, this little viking, it was unlike any viking he’d ever heard of or seen or fought. 

The viking hatchling had found him, had likely seen his injured tail and inability to fly... and it had just _watched_ him. It hadn’t pulled out that metal claw, hadn’t gotten one of those massive two-sided metal blades to try and decapitate him with, hadn’t run away screaming in terror. The thing hadn’t looked furious or bloodthirsty or scared: it had just looked curious.

Even when it had noticed him watching, it hadn’t been terrified: it had just waved it’s paw at him in what the dragon suspected was a friendly gesture, and then left.

It went against _everything_ he’d thought he knew about Vikings.

Vikings were supposed to be huge, violent humans with a penchant for screaming and decapitation. They were supposed to be hulking, burly creatures covered with fur, almost like a bear, except instead of small, fragile claws, they wielded massive metal blades that could easily cut a fully grown Gronckle in half with one well-placed swing. Vikings were cruel, Vikings were merciless, Vikings were bloodthirsty monsters who killed for the sport of it and lacked any sort of cleverness.

_Vikings always go for the kill._

Vikings weren’t supposed to be small, scrawny little things. They weren’t quiet and thoughtful and curious. They didn’t have mercy, they did not know kindness, they weren’t friendly. They didn’t set a dragon free once they’d trapped them. They didn’t watch dragons with simple curiosity instead of hatred. 

_**Vikings always go for the kill.** _

As the Nightfury listened to the retreating sound of footsteps he couldn’t help but wonder.

_Why didn’t you?_


End file.
